


Overdose

by RPGgirl514



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Episode: s02e07 The Scimitar (No. 22), F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Ressler hadn't flushed the pills?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overdose

Her cell phone vibrated, and the sound startled Elizabeth Keen awake in the unfamiliar dark.  She burrowed her hand under the pillow for her gun, until she remembered where she was.  Scratchy polyester comforter and cheap cotton sheets.  A television across the room with rabbit-ear antennae.  A Gideon Bible on the nightstand next to the alarm clock.   _Motel.  Right._  Keen’s phone buzzed again, harsh and loud in the sleepy silence.  She dragged it off the nightstand. “Hello?”

“Agent Keen, we’ve got a case.”

Liz glanced over at the glowing red numerals of the motel alarm clock. “Cooper, it’s three in the morning.”

“We’ve got to hit the ground running on this one,” Cooper said. “And can you call Ressler? He’s not picking up for me.”

With a groan, Liz sat up and rubbed her eyes. She’d barely gotten to sleep four hours ago. It was going to be a long day. She dialed Ressler’s cell as she pulled out the cleanest and least wrinkled blouse from her suitcase.

“This is Special Agent Donald Ressler. Please leave your name and phone number after the beep, or you can call my office at 202-555-8971. Thanks.”

“Ressler, it’s Keen. We’ve got a case. Cooper said it’s urgent. Call me when you get this.” She frowned as she pulled her hair back. It wasn’t like Ressler not to answer his phone, but it was three in the morning, after all. She hadn’t spoken to him about the pills, not since their brief conversation after Sitka, and if Cooper asked, she would cover for him. That’s what partners did.  She decided she’d try his phone again on the way to the office.  Keen swung her legs out of bed and headed for the shower.

It wasn’t until Ressler let two more calls go to voicemail that the alarm bells started ringing in Keen’s mind.  She pulled over and parked near the office, but she paused before she turned off the ignition.  Her intuition was rarely wrong -- it was part of the reason she was such a talented profiler.  Maybe she would swing by his apartment, just to be sure.  Best case scenario, she’d rouse him and they’d get right to work.  Worst case . . . well, Keen didn’t want to think about that.

Her nerves jangled all the way to Ressler’s apartment building. She debated calling Reddington, but decided against it. She was a big girl; she could handle this herself.  Besides, Keen thought, she was probably overreacting.  She did, however, call in a favor at the office.

“Ressler?” she called, knocking on his door. “Ressler, come on; I know you’re in there; I had Aram trace your cell phone.”

A few minutes passed, and Keen’s sense of foreboding grew.  By now she was pounding on the door. “Ressler, open this door, or God help me, I will kick it down!” No answer. Keen drew her gun and raised her boot.

The door crashed open, banging against the wall on the inside of the apartment, and Keen rushed in to clear the room. “Clear,” she called, out of habit, till her eyes fell on Ressler and her voice faltered. “Oh God.”

Ressler was slumped back on the couch in the living room, his skin pale and clammy, his lips and nail beds blue. She leaned over him, hoping to feel his breath on her cheek, but there was nothing. Keen pressed two fingers to his throat.  Her own heart fluttered in panic: nothing. She dragged him off the couch to lie flat on the floor and sealed his lips with her own, breathing life into him. Keen dialed 911 with frantic fingers, putting the phone on speaker and laying it on the floor beside her as she started CPR.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

She gave the address in a gush of breathless words, forcing herself to stay focused on Ressler as she continued chest compressions.

“Don’t you die on me,” she said.  Her eyes stung, and she swiped impatiently at them.  This wasn’t the time for tears. “Come _on_ , Ressler!”  She closed her mouth over his again, and that’s when she felt him move, her right hand splayed over his chest as he literally took her breath away. She pulled back, eyes wide. Sirens sounded in the distance. She heaved a sigh of relief, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. His breath was shallow and his eyes were unfocused under heavy lids.  Ressler threw out his arm, catching her sleeve.

Keen snaked her hands under his armpits, supporting him and hugging him to her. His arms were limp.  His head drooped onto her shoulder.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” she whispered. He mumbled something against her neck.  She held one hand firmly on his back between his shoulder blades, keeping them both grounded.

After that, it was a blur. Paramedics flooded the room, latex-encased hands came around and lifted Ressler onto a stretcher and took him away. Keen knelt, bereft, in the middle of the living room. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sniffed, an uncomfortable pressure building behind her eyes. When she opened her eyes all she could see was the empty orange prescription bottle under the coffee table, missing its lid. That, on top of finding Ressler like she had, was enough to make the tears fall.

* * *

When Ressler awoke, the first thing he was aware of was the steady beep of medical machinery.  He felt someone’s eyes on him, and he shifted around to peer over the foot of the bed. Raymond Reddington was sitting in the corner with one ankle propped on his knee, looking perfectly content as if he’d been just waiting for Ressler to wake up.  It never ceased to amaze Ressler how one of the most wanted men in the world could pass so freely through it.

“Good afternoon, Donald,” Reddington said, the pleasantry edged with steel. “I see that despite your best efforts, you’ve lived to see another day.”

“What?” he said hoarsely. He coughed weakly. Sharp pain rocketed through his chest, stealing his breath away.

“Don’t try to talk,” Reddington said. “Just listen.” He stood up, taking off his bowler hat and approaching the hospital bed.

“Did you know Agent Keen was the one who found you?”

That hit him like a punch to the gut. Ressler shook his head.

“You’ve got her to thank for your bruised ribs, by the way,” Reddington continued. “She called me to tell me you’d overdosed. She was in tears. Do you have any idea what happened to the last man who made Elizabeth Keen cry?”

That would have been Tom, Ressler thought, and no one had seen or heard from the man in months.

“We understand each other, then.”

Ressler nodded once. That seemed to satisfy Reddington, because he perched his bowler hat back on his head and showed himself out.

Ressler drifted in and out of consciousness for the next twenty-four hours, partly due to exhaustion, his medication, and his dread about facing Keen. He felt the warm pressure of someone holding his hand and he looked over to see Keen’s dark hair curtained over her face as she dozed, her chin propped on her free hand. Her elbow slipped off the armrest and she jerked upright, eyes wide as they settled on him.

“Hey,” she said.  “You’re awake.”

Keen realized she was still holding his hand and flushed. She made to pull her hand away but Ressler tightened his fingers to keep it there. His gaze was intense.

He tried to speak, but his throat was still as hoarse and sore as before. “Water,” he croaked, and Keen got up to get some.

She held the plastic cup to his lips, and he brought his hand up to support it himself.  He set the empty cup on the tray attached to the bed, and without a word reached for Keen’s hand again.

“Sorry you had to see me that way,” he said, and he was pleased to hear his voice sound more like his own, though speaking still sent ripples of pain through his chest.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said, but her eyes were sad. “I have to tell Cooper.”

He shook his head, the movement making his stiff neck cry out in protest, but he didn’t care. “Please.”

“I have to,” she said. “You said you’d tell him if it became a problem. I’d say bursting into your apartment to find you not breathing qualifies as a problem.”

He imagined what it would be like if their roles had been reversed -- if it had been her lying on the floor not breathing -- and Ressler knew he’d make the same decision. “Sorry,” he said again.

She squeezed his fingers and brought their joined hands to her lips. “I can’t do that again, Ressler; I can’t,” she whispered.  She could hardly bring herself to ask, “Did you do it on purpose?”

He shook his head.  “It was an accident.”  His throat burned, but he didn’t want to burden Keen with a request for more water.  He’d use the call button once she left.

“I don’t know what I would have done if . . .” she trailed off, but Ressler could fill in the blanks in his head. _If she’d been too late?_  He squeezed her hand.

“It’s over. Don’t worry about it.”

Keen let their clasped hands fall back to the bed.  “You’re my partner, and I care about you.  Even when you don’t care about yourself.”

Ressler didn’t know what to say to that. It didn’t seem fair, given what he’d put her through. All he could say was that he was sorry, which he was saying far too often lately.

“I’ve got to get back to the office,” she said. “I wish I could stay.”

His eyes followed her as she stood up, and his hand felt empty without her fingers in between his own. “Me too.”


End file.
